


Do you know what it feels like to fall in love?

by qgmon



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: 2nd person POV, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Post episode 5, Soft Villanelle - Freeform, this is painful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qgmon/pseuds/qgmon
Summary: ‘Hi, Eve.’So quiet, you don’t even hear it come out of your mouth. But she does. You know this because you can suddenly feel a warm presence of another body in front of you, a knee gently bumping into yours as it’s slowly being positioned on the hard ground, and then there’s a warm hand stroking your back and another one carefully lifting your face by the chin. Up up up it goes until she stops and holds you there, still quiet. You brace yourself and open your eyes.She’s right there, ready to meet you.•••soft and painful; post - episode 5
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 51
Kudos: 219





	Do you know what it feels like to fall in love?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still broken.

_Do you know what it feels like to fall in love?_

Perhaps you should’ve thought about it before you started caring enough to analyse the thoughts in your head and the feeling in your bones and that pesky buzz in your chest where your heart’s supposed to be because surely, _surely_ , heartache isn’t a real thing but rather a state of mind created by overly sensitive ladies whose ugly boyfriends are being shitty - the thing ugly boyfriends do best. Or so it says in the movies. You wouldn’t know.

You’re dragging your backpack behind you, walking blindly down the road somewhere in London. You don’t know and can’t even be bothered to figure out the name of the area because really, you don’t care what it’s called and wouldn’t even be aware of its existence if it wasn’t where she currently resides. If you hadn’t strutted half a mile on the same cracked concrete, turning left once and right twice where the pavement is covered by so many squished dry bubblegum stains that it almost looks intentional, creating some weird yet fascinating ornament all the way up to where you had to take a quick turn again to reach her shitty apartment building. If you hadn’t opened the door to her flat with such ease you almost wanted to leave a note, scolding her and telling her that she really should be more careful because she never knows what dangerous person could creep into her house in the middle of the night. She’s not had the best track record when it comes to avoiding dangerous people, has she? You never bothered with the note, though, and left her a pink teddy bear instead, tucking it under her sheets, positioning it so that she would touch it, squeeze it somehow, making sure the contact would be intense enough for the bear’s heart to light up in red and let out your words, release your voice laced with certainty and promise:

‘ _Admit it Eve, you wish I was here._ ’

This same walk feels very different now, however. It’s not really intentional. Your body instinctively started moving in a certain direction and you never stopped to question it, going wherever your legs were taking you because what else are you supposed to do? You don’t have anywhere else to go, anywhere else to be. If there’s one thing these last few days and your trip to _motherland_ taught you, is that you don’t have a home. You have nothing and no one and no one is waiting for you to come around and make them smile with joy when they see your face. Unlike that baby you took in Andalusia, no one would be relieved to have found you alive and safe in the bin. No one would even be looking or notice you were gone in the first place.

There’s something rolling down your cheek, leaving a shimmering wet trail at the thought but you quickly wipe it down. You’re not shedding anymore tears for her, not again. You don’t cry, _right_? You can’t. That’s what they kept telling you all these years, what _she_ told you. You didn’t cry for her as a baby. You shouldn’t start now.

If no one wants you, you can deal with it. If you have to be alone your entire life, you can deal with that too. _You’ll be fine_. You’ll become a keeper, boss people around and wear the best clothes money can buy. If no one loves you, it doesn’t matter. Who even needs love when you can have power?

Your legs are dragging so slowly you almost forget you are, indeed, still moving forward. You’re at the third turn now, you think.  
Okay, back up. You’ve been telling yourself the above for hours now, playing the words like a melody in your ears, through quiet headphones. Those base notes really hit like a hammer on the head, though. If you know all this - and you do, you _really do_ and believe it, because you’re a _winner_. And you’re powerful - you smell like it, too. Then, _why_?

Why?

Why are you standing just outside of her shitty box-sized apartment? Why are you lifting your hand to touch her ugly white door? Honestly, you’re pretty sure you could just twist the handle and walk in, it would be that easy. But why don’t you even want to surprise her? Why are you knocking, asking for permission to enter? Once, twice, three times. _Dud dud dud_ , just like your heartbeat. Or is it hers you can hear from the other side?

Why?

The door opens and she’s right there, in front of you. Her hair wild and out, just how you like it. You want to smile, but your mouth is not moving somehow. You try again – nothing. She doesn’t move or say anything either. She’s just there, looking at you with her big brown eyes and you feel the rain staining your cheeks again. You wipe the droplets. Stupid British weather, always raining.

You’re definitely _one-hundred-percent_ not crying in front of her.

Your backpack falls off your shoulders. Your knees give up. You drop to the ground and start sobbing. You try to contain it in your throat but it only makes the feeling worse. The sounds you’re making are very ugly and you’re sure she thinks you’ve left your body and replaced it with a wounded animal of some sorts. An ugly, screaming one. Most days you’d be a lioness; a sleek panther, ready to track down, captivate and attack. Today, you’re a moose shot in the chest. If that. Maybe you’re a mere rabbit.

You hate how dramatic you’ve become - not even in a good way; _что ты со мной сделала, мама?_

You want to see her reaction, want to know what she’s thinking and maybe you would even scream at her a little – to let out your frustration and blame her for everything. Surely, this is all her fault somehow? She’s the one that started making you feel things in the first place.

  
You can’t, though. Your eyes are glued shut by all the – alright, you’ll admit it – tears that are leaking through your eyelids, and the lump in your throat has grown to be four times its original size now so you can’t even whisper a pained hello anymore. You’re still going to try.

‘Hi, Eve.’

So quiet, you don’t even hear it come out of your mouth. But she does. You know this because you can suddenly feel a warm presence of another body in front of you, a knee gently bumping into yours as it’s slowly being positioned on the hard ground, and then there’s a warm hand stroking your back and another one carefully lifting your face by the chin. Up up up it goes until she stops and holds you there, still quiet. You brace yourself and open your eyes.

She’s right there, ready to meet you.

‘Villanelle,’ she whispers, ‘what happened?’

‘I found my family,’ you offer.

A small smile finds its way to your mouth, jumping up and down on your bottom lip, making it quiver uncontrollably. You try to stop it with your fingers but they seem to be doing that same shaking thing as well. Matter of fact, your whole body is, despite Eve’s efforts to hold you still.

‘And I killed my mother.’

•••

She invites you into her painfully unimpressive apartment and sits you down. You move to the corner of her _a bit too small to be a full double_ bed. Cheap mattress, you can tell. It’s not too comfortable but it will have to do.

She tells you to take off your shoes and asks if you would like a clean t-shirt to sleep in. You can get dressed here or in the bathroom, your choice. She’ll be in the kitchen making you both tea anyways, she says.

You quirk up your eyebrow.

‘You’re staying?’ she’s assuming.

She’s offering, she adds. She wouldn’t let you leave in this state anyways, so you have no choice but to agree, really. You should scoff but you nod instead and take her top. You wonder how many times she’s worn it already. How many years ago she’d bought it. It smells of her and that makes you smile.

You put it on immediately and jump to tuck yourself in her sheets, sighing as soon as your head hits the pillow. She comes back from the kitchen and places two mugs on the small table beside her.

‘Tea’s still hot.’

And then it happens.

You start crying again; howling, even. She scoots closer and then there’s a body squeezing into yours, there are arms wrapping around you and a mouth pressing warm kisses to your forehead, your temple and your eyes, kissing away the tears that keep leaking and leaking and leaking out of you as if someone turned the tap all the way to the right. Your water pressure would be immaculate, still.

You open your mouth to say something but-

‘You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,’ Eve says.

‘I do.’

You start talking and she listens. You tell her how long the train ride to Russia was, _so_ incredibly long and uncomfortable, in fact, that even travelling first class didn’t help. Something you usually love, by the way.

You tell her about Гризмет and all the cows that live there. The house, how small and unimpressive it is- _was_.

‘Still better than this place, though. Sorry.’

She smiles.

You tell her about the card games and the baby pictures and Pyotr’s couch that he hits with a bat regularly, and Bor’ka’s love for Elton John and she listens really intently when you mention that you’ve left him money to go see Elton on his farewell tour because she almost looks surprised and you guess she would be, but you genuinely liked him and he didn’t deserve the life you never had.

You mention the festival and that you won the dung throwing contest and that you were _so good_ at finding that pesky ball under those cups, too good, in fact, because the angry lady made you leave after you won too many times. Eve tells you she’s proud of you. You should scoff, _again_ , but you don’t. You nod. _Again_.

  
You tell Eve about _her_. The cold hug she gave you and the lies she told you and how bitter she was about how much your father loved you more than her. You talk about the denim outfit she gave you. You tell her how she did not want to wipe your face because you were not a child. How she did anyways and then told you to leave after. How she told you you didn’t have a home there. How you weren’t a part of the family. How she grabbed you by the face and squeezed, painfully. How the look in her eyes never changed, no matter what she was doing – being fake nice or angry, for real. How you snapped her neck. How you burned the house. How you never looked back to see the flames.

You stop talking. She’s probably going to kick you out and make you leave or maybe leave herself, just like they all have done before. You hold your breath, waiting for it.

Instead, she squeezes you tighter.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispers and leans closer to you.

Your eyes snap from her gaze down to her lips and then back up again.

If no one wants you, you can deal with it. If you have to be alone your entire life, you can deal with that too. If no one loves you, it doesn’t matter.

Except for Eve. _There’s always Eve._

You really want her to kiss you and you say it, accidentally. So she does. Her mouth is warm and inviting, lips moving slowly against yours and you lean in to deepen the kiss, trying to inhale the air she breathes, to become one with her and stay like that forever.

This is not what you imagined sharing a bed with her would look like.

Under different circumstances, you’d be buried deep inside of her. Your mouth on her, your tongue not only meeting hers for a slow dance but exploring every part of her body, too. Your hands busy, nails leaving angry red marks on every single one of her soft surfaces, your chin and neck covered and dripping, mouth full of Eve. You’d be moaning into her and she would be screaming. Back arching, fingers gripping, words desperate and asking for more more _more_ -

Under different circumstances, you’d be doing exactly that.

You’re not sure why they’re different tonight, or ever. Why you’re in pain and wanting to cry and why her soft kisses and slow tongue against yours is everything you need. Why you want to keep doing just that and then ask her to hug you and hold you for a while and hope that she agrees and strokes your hair a little, too.

You think you don’t know but maybe you do.

You don’t want to be alone, not really. Everything you told yourself was a lie. You need someone to want you. You need someone to care about you. You need someone to love you. And you need it to be her. Even with everyone else gone, there’s always her.

Eve.

_Do you know what it feels like to fall in love?_

You do, you know that now. Even when you don’t believe it, your body takes you to where you need to be.

 _Fuck Russia._ Eve is home.

The way she holds you in the night, the way her hands touch your skin, the way her careful fingers leave goosebumps on your thighs in their wake. The way she kisses you and whispers little nothings in your ear, you believe that maybe, _just maybe_ , she does too.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my life better.


End file.
